


Equal and Opposite Reaction

by DonnesCafe



Series: Actions and Reactions [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluffy Angst, Love, M/M, Mycroft's an idiot, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Relationship Negotiation, Spanking, is that even a thing?, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 10:12:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6606979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnesCafe/pseuds/DonnesCafe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small birthday gift for Nixxie, who asked for “Mystrade” and “first spanking.” More fluff than smut, but two out of three isn’t bad. It seemed to slot in nicely at some point after “Chemical Reactions,” so you might want to read that one first. “Chemical Reactions” takes place after John’s wedding, and this one takes place after "The Abominable Bride."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Equal and Opposite Reaction

According to Newton’s Third Law, for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. In every interaction, there is a pair of forces acting on the two interacting objects. That’s what he remembered from sixth form physics anyway. 

Lestrade has had it up to the eyeballs with being acted on by Mycroft Holmes. He has been used, manipulated, kept in the dark. He thought that the sex had changed that. Hell, he thought they had even become friends, to the extent that anyone like Mycroft could have a friend. Friends with benefits was something he could live with. Sometimes he woke up at three in the morning in a cold bed and wondered if it could ever be more than that. He ruthlessly suppressed those longings. Mycroft was a complicated man with a complicated life. Lestrade understood that he didn’t want more complications. 

Now he wondered if the whole thing had been part of one of Mycroft’s Machiavellian schemes. The sex, the dinners out, the lazy Sunday walks on Hampstead Heath followed by the _Times_ crossword and more sex. Those lazy Sundays were few and far between, but his schedule and that of the British Government rarely seemed to mesh. It had been… good. Or so he had thought. The last several days, however, made him wonder if it had all been in the service of keeping another minion close, of keeping Sherlock alive and, more or less, drug-free. He was obviously a fool to think that Mycroft gave a damn about him. He was a fool for thinking he understood anything about Mycroft Holmes. 

“Get your hands off me, Detective Inspector. I am perfectly capable of standing on my own.” Mycroft’s voice was calm. In spite of the fact that there was blood running down from his scalp to his jaw, in spite of the fact that less than a minute ago he had been handcuffed to a chair, in spite of the fact that he had not a stitch of clothing on him, his voice was calm. 

“I’m just trying to keep you upright, you sodding _wanker_ ,” Lestrade said. 

“Is Sherlock…,” Mycroft whispered through bloody lips. 

“Sherlock, Sherlock, fucking **Sherlock** ,” Lestrade yelled. His voice echoed in the empty warehouse. Empty except for himself, the chair, a table with bloodied implements on it -- those made him nauseous -- and a naked, battered Mycroft. “Is Sherlock all you care about? You came within a hair of getting yourself killed. How could you just give yourself up to Moriarty? You knew what he might do. How could you not tell me? I could have helped.” 

Mycroft closed his eyes, his pale face going even paler around the bruises and swelling that covered it. “I had to come alone. I couldn’t take the risk. He would have killed Sherlock. He said….” Suddenly Mycroft’s bony knees buckled. Lestrade caught him in a tangle of long limbs and sank down onto the chair with Mycroft spread face-down across his legs. Lestrade was relieved to see that aside from his face, hands, and arms, he was relatively unmarked. He had gotten here in time. Thank God. 

“Sherlock… please, is he….” Lestrade sighed. Mycroft was an arsehole, but he did love his brother. 

“He’s ok, Mycroft. Bit worse than you, but he'll live. John found him a half hour ago on the other side of the river. He’s hurt, but he’s alive. Moriarty is dead. So are Moran and Mary. Donovan killed Mary, didn’t think John could do it in spite of everything.” 

Mycroft’s body went limp with relief. Lestrade’s hands stroked soothingly, almost in spite of themselves, down the marble-white back. “That’s…good then,” Mycroft mumbled. He sounded exhausted. He started trying to get up. Lestrade’s hands held him still. 

“So all’s right with the world, then? How could you risk your life like this? You walked away from all your agents, from any protection. From me.” 

Suddenly Lestrade stood, manhandling Mycroft’s lanky form into a standing position as he did. 

“I want honest answers to two questions,” Lestrade said. “If you can’t or won’t answer them, I’m done with you and with Sherlock. Mycroft, look at me.” 

Mycroft raised his head. Blood trickled sluggishly from his hair down his neck. Scalp wounds were the worst. His eyes narrowed, but he obviously saw something in Lestrade’s face. He didn’t object. 

“Do you care about me at all?” 

Mycroft blinked. “Caring is not an advantage,” he said. 

“Bollocks,” said Lestrade. “I’m giving you another go at that one. You care about Sherlock or you wouldn’t be standing here starkers. Do you care about me? At all?” 

Mycroft sighed. “Yes, Greg, I _care_ about you.” In spite of the sarcastic twist to his words, something in Lestrade’s gut unclenched. 

“I am not in the habit of casual liaisons,” Mycroft continued. “I am not in the habit of liaisons of any kind, as a matter of fact. I do care about you.” The cool voice went just a shade warmer on the last statement. 

“Good. I care about you too, you great idiot. For the record.” 

“Have you called Anthea to come for me?” 

“Oh, no. You don’t get any questions before I’m done. Second question, why did you keep me in the dark?” 

Mycroft’s eyes shifted. He looked over Lestrade’s shoulder for a long moment. Something complicated happened with his thin mouth. Then he spoke. 

“I was… afraid. They would have killed Sherlock.” 

Lestrade waited. 

Mycroft eyes came back to his. “And you. I was afraid if you were with me they would have killed you.” He straightened, and his expression of calm returned. “So there you have it. Have you called Anthea to come for me?” 

“Nope. Looks like you’re not seriously injured. Your team and my team were off taking care of the Sherlock end of the operation when I figured out where you might be. It's just you and me. I can patch you up at my place. Then I’m getting some of my own back. You scared me, Mycroft. I thought you were _dead._ I also realized about that time that I was in love with your sorry ass, so I’ve had a bad day. God, what you’ve put me through.” 

Mycroft cocked his head. The effect was somewhat marred by the blood and bruises, but he looked… interested. 

“So am I to understand that you are still amenable to continuing our relationship?” 

“Yeah,” Lestrade said, “but my rules. I’m patching you up, then I’m giving you a good spanking for making me lose my fucking mind with worry for the last two days, then I’m going to fuck you into the mattress. After that, I’ll fix you something to eat. After that you can call Anthea. You good with all that?” 

“I haven’t been spanked since I was eight. I am… fine… with everything else, but that is unacceptable.” 

Lestrade was momentarily diverted. “What did you get spanked for when you were eight?” 

“I took Sherlock from his crib down to the duck pond to see if he would float. It bothered Mummy much more than it bothered Sherlock.” Lestrade laughed. It was the first time he had laughed in days. Mycroft’s lips thinned, then quirked into a smile, small but real. 

“My spanking will be more fun. Come on, Mycroft. I want to feel my hand against that white arse of yours.” Suddenly, he reached out and threw his arms around Mycroft. “God, I’m so glad you’re alive.” 

“Very well. But no riding crops. That’s Sherlock’s thing.” Greg held on to the naked body in his arms even tighter. 

“No riding crops,” he promised. “Brought my own car,” he continued, taking off his jacket. “Put this on, best I can do.” They left the warehouse, Greg looping one of his arms around the other man’s waist, trying to ignore the fact that he was half hard, just thinking about what he was going to do to Mycroft Holmes.


End file.
